Harkour
by Sorge
Summary: In the northern realm of Skyrim, a legend persists. A giant of a man in traveler's robes walks through the moonlit moors. The last of his order, borne up by conviction and blessed with the power of Mara to combat the evils of the undead, he is Harkour: the hawk-feather. A witch-hunter and brother of a werewolf.


Rjanolf spat in the snow. The little sack was far too light for what it had cost. It was moldy and stank. When turned out, it revealed contents as foul as its exterior. Rjanolf threw the empty travel sack down in disgust.

"Worthless!" he spat.

Nearby, Iago perked up his sharp ears. His green eyes flashed as he rose from his place by the fire.

"Stay, Khajiit!" Rjanolf warned. He was in no mood to fend off the greedy cat's tedious questions, not tonight.

Iago saw the blood fresh on the blade of the Nord's dagger, and decided not to press the issue.

"This one only wishes to know if you have brought back any green stones of the kind Khajiit likes," the cat muttered in his whispering way that the Nord found irritating. His paws curled reflexively, as though they already held the precious things.

"Hands to yourself, sneak-thief!" Rjanolf spat. "This spoil is mine!"

"You mean it is ours, brother!" Another Nord of a slightly stockier build emerged from the trees, dragging behind him a thick horse haunch. Perspiration shone on his bare chest despite the cold. "She was a pretty thing, wasn't she? Maybe we should have let her go—after a bit of fun, of course."

"And let her lead the Jarl's men right back to our camp?" Rjanolf scoffed. "No thank you, Anvar! If she thought she could ride through our pass without paying the tax, she was a fool, and I say she deserves what she got."

"And I say it's about time we had something more filling in our stomachs than bits of stale bread!" Anvar rumbled. He threw the fresh haunch down on the snow at Iago's feet. The blood on it had already begun to freeze. It shone wetly in the fading light.

Iago eyed the cut disdainfully.

"What is Khajiit to do with this?" he hissed. "Iago has no fuel for cooking."

"Then go out and cut some, or roast it with your fancy magic!" Anvar complained. "If all you're going to do is laze around camp, the least you could do is make a fire ready for us on our return!"

"Iago is no mage," the big cat pointed out. "His fire is not for cooking, and the Nord has an axe for wood-cutting. Perhaps this one should put a coat on if he is cold."

"I'll make a coat out of you, Khajiit!" Anvar shouted, going for his weapon. "This was my grandfather's axe! It is not for cutting firewood!"

"Enough!" Rjanolf shouted. "Both of you!" His voice carried the weight of command.

Both combatants froze: Anvar with a hand on the hilt of his axe, and Iago with his claws up, ready to cast a bolt of magicka.

"I have had it with your petty bickering!" Rjanolf continued. "You squabble like brats!"

In one quick stride, he closed the distance between them. He seized the war axe from Anvar's hand and struck Iago over the head with the blunt end of it, hard enough to hurt. Then, to Anvar's horror, he took the axe and buried it deep in the trunk of a tree.

"Iago's head!" the Khajiit complained, ducking away to lick his wounds.

"Your head?" Anvar shouted incredulously. "That was my grandfather's axe!"

"Your head is thick, Khajiit, and an axe is an axe, Anvar!" Rjanolf retorted. "Go cut some wood!" He turned to the Khajiit, who was sulking by the fire. "And you, Iago! Stoke up that fire and get the meat roasting while there is still light!"

There was a great deal of grumbling and backbiting, but soon enough, Anvar returned with an armful of cut branches. Soon there was a respectable fire crackling away in the midst of the clearing. While Iago cooked and cleaned the meat, Rjalnof began the task of dividing up the spoil.

He emptied the looted sack over their makeshift plank table, and spread the meager contents out with his hands. It was a disappointing haul. There was a little pouch full of rank-smelling herbs he didn't recognize, a few trinkets of little worth and a few septims. Hardly even enough money to travel on.

The woman had been wearing a priest's robes. It figured that she belonged to some acetic order; couldn't be bothered to carry around any real coin. Rjanolf snorted and swept the pile into the snow.

"Any good, brother?" Anvar called from his place by the fire.

"It's all worthless," he said, meaning more than he'd intended to say. He turned his back on the refuse and threw himself down by the firelight.

For a while, no one spoke. The fire crackled and snapped as the meat dripped over it. The mood was dark. Finally, Iago ventured to speak.

"This one wonders if it is right."

Anvar either missed the intonation, or didn't care.

"What, and get our throats cut by the Jarl's men in our sleep? There's a reason we stay off the roads."

Rjanolf quieted him with a wave. "Peace, brother. There will be another day." He was beginning to feel very hungry, and the sizzling meat dangling over the fire was starting to look better and better.

Iago noticed his hungry eyes.

"It is not ready yet. Have patience."

"To Oblivion with patience! I am dying of hunger!" Anvar brought out his dagger and cut himself a chunk of horseflesh, thrusting it into his mouth without waiting for it to cool. He chewed sourly. The meat was gamey and tough. He grimaced and forced it down.

"You're trying to poison us, Khajiit!" he said when his mouth was clear. "Disgusting!"

"It is not for Iago to make delicious meats from bits of dead horse you bring him," Iago sniffed. Then he sighed. "For his part, Iago, wishes for fresh cheese and some wine. It has been a long time since Khajiit had these things."

"And mead!" Anvar added. "Just a bottle!"

"Or a barrel," Rjanolf agreed, taking his supper in turn. He expected Iago to agree, knowing the cat's affinity for the sticky-sweet stuff. But the Khajiit said nothing.

Rjanolf looked at Iago in surprise. "Talos have mercy!" he chuckled. "Has the cat lost its sweet tooth?"

"Hush. Be quiet. Iago is listening." Indeed, the sharp-eared Khajiit seemed to be absorbed in listening for something the others could not hear.

The others grew instantly silent, perking up their ears. Iago's sixth sense was almost legendary. They knew his hearing was better than both of theirs combined. Now they waited tensely, daring him to rise and declare that it had been a false alarm.

Finally, Rjalnof could bear it no longer.

"What is it?" he hissed.

"Someone is there," the Khajiit said quietly.

A twig snapped outside the firelight. Rjanolf and Anvar were on their feet in an instant.

"Who is there?" Rjanolf cried.

"Blessings of Talos be upon you," a kindly voice replied. "It is only I."

Rjanolf and the others were stricken dumb as a man appeared in their midst as suddenly as if he'd popped out of the snow. The newcomer wore a pilgrim's weather-stained traveling robes and a great floppy-brimmed green hat with a broad hawk feather stuck in it. He looked so absurd and his appearance was such a surprise that Rjanolf forgot all about running him through with his dagger.

"Who are you?" he asked, suddenly afraid. "Speak!"

"I am but a traveler on my way to Winterhold," the stranger said openly, spreading his gloved hands in a congenial gesture. "But the road is long, and I am weary. When I saw your fire through the trees, I thought to come by it and warm myself. And now this is a fine meeting!"

The Nord brothers shared a glance of alarm. If their cooking fire was visible from the road, they'd made a grave blunder. Iago discretely began to roll the fire.

"I don't know who you are, stranger, but we've no want of you here," Rjanolf asserted, still wary of strange men who emerge from the darkness like ghosts and call themselves travelers. "Warm your hands and go."

The stranger fixed him with clear green eyes that seemed to shine with plain good humor.

"Are you sure? I will not be a burden to you. I have my own provisions, and I only want for company."

"Provisions?" Anvar asked, despite himself. He had finished his supper, but a hunk of gamey horse was hardly enough to put a dent in his appetite.

The stranger merely smiled and opened his pack. First he drew out a blanket and spread it over the snow like a tablecloth. Before the trio's wondering eyes, a great store of fine foodstuffs came spilling out onto the blanket.

There were salted meats and smoked fish, fresh green apples and full, round tomatoes. Loaves of white bread appeared, along with butter and sticky honeycomb wrapped up in parchment paper. To Iago's delight, there was an entire Eldar cheese, and the triumph of it all was an enormous jug of spiced wine.

It was a spread fit for a Jarl's table. To the encamped men who had subsisted for weeks on stale bread, thrice-toasted in the embers of the fire, the sight was utterly engrossing.

"It is not much," the stranger confessed. "Where I come from, this is but traveler's fare. But I will gladly share it with you."

"They must eat like emperors where you come from!" Rjanolf exclaimed incredulously. "Our thanks, traveler! Come! Have a seat by the fire!" Rjanolf led him to his own chair and set him upon it. "Iago!" he cried. "Kick up the fire, put another log on! And bring up another stool for us to sit on, brother! Then get out the cups!"

Soon the camp was in a merry mood, the most it had been in as long as any of them could remember. Three silver mugs appeared, and the wine was poured freely. It was sweet and strong and went right to the head. The fire leaped up and cast a cheerful orange glow on hands and faces, and before they knew why, the trio was singing uproariously. Iago jumped up on a stump and did a little dance while Rjanolf and Anvar clapped and cheered.

Through it all, the stranger just sat and smiled serenely. When offered wine, he declined politely, but did more than his share at the table to make up for it. The feasting went on and on until they felt they could hardly eat another bite. But when there was nothing more that looked fit to eat, even among the scraps, they sat back and reclined around the fire, completely satisfied.

Rjanolf sighed contentedly, at total ease and sleepy with wine. He glanced around and saw that the others were no worse off. Anvar seemed half-asleep already, nestled into a crook between the roots of a tree with his head bowed. Iago was stretched out luxuriously, warming himself by the fire. Only the stranger still seemed to have his wits about him. He sat up straight, occasionally poking the fire with a stick. Then he would stare into the swirling sparks with a restful smile on his face, apparently lost in thought.

Something bothered Rjanolf, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. In any case, he was too sleepy to care. It occurred to him that he'd never asked the stranger's name.

"Traveler," he began, hauling himself upright with an effort. "What is your name? I wish to thank you for your hospitality."

The stranger nodded sagely.

"Then I accept your thanks, though as for my name..." A shadow of pain passed over his face, and then vanished. "No, it is not a nice name. I will keep it for myself, if you don't mind."

Rjanolf nodded. Fair enough. He understood, or thought he did. Aliases were a common necessity in his line of work.

"But what shall I call you?" he persisted. "You must go by some name."

"Many," the man confessed. "Men call me by many names in different lands. I have traveled far, and I am not as young as I look."

He raised his face to the firelight, and under the shadow of his hat, Rjanolf saw that his face was lined with the scars of experience, though he could not have been very old—no more than thirty years of age, perhaps.

"And what do they call you here?"

"Some call me Harkour," the stranger admitted. "You may call me that, or simply Traveler. Both names are apt enough."

"Hawk-feather," Rjanolf mused.

"Ah, a student of the old tongues," the stranger said gravely. "Yes, that is what Harkour means. It is not a proper name for a man, but..." he trailed off, stroking the long feather that stuck from his cap. "Yes, it fits. It is my name." He broke out in a soft chuckle.

"Will you be going far tonight?" Rjanolf asked, focusing only with difficulty. The wine was affecting him more than it usually did. He chalked it up to long abstinence.

"No, I've not far to go. Only over the mountain and to Winterhold. But perhaps you mean by that: you are worried about what I might do to you in your sleep tonight?" The stranger shook his head. "I've already told you: you should not be afraid of me."

"Afraid?" Rjanolf forced a laugh. "Why should I be afraid of you, or any other?" He was beginning to feel very uneasy now that the excitement of food and drink were wearing off. Who was this stranger that he'd let into his camp for the price of a meal? In fact, he was feeling more than unease: he felt that his limbs had begun to grow suddenly and curiously heavy. He tried to move and found that they resisted his will. He opened his mouth and found that he could not speak.

What?

The man poked the fire and was silent for a long while. When he spoke, it was with a somber note that unsettled Rjanolf on an intimate level. The words chilled him to the bone, for he knew they were true.

"Whether you know it or not, it is so. I sensed as much when I watched you by the firelight. I saw it in the way you looked over your shoulder when you laid that woman in the snow. And now I hear it in your voice when you tell me you are not afraid. You are afraid, bandit. And rightly so. There is much to fear!"

The stranger stood to his feet with surprising speed and swept back his garment.

For the first time, Rjanolf saw what lay beneath the old traveling cloak. He gaped at the Ebony armor that glistened there, and his eyes fixed on the sharp silver broadsword that hung at the stranger's side. He tried to move his body, but his muscles would not respond. He could not even lift his head. The wine! he realized. The wine was drugged!

In that moment he saw that his doom was at hand, and the others' too, and he knew that the stranger was right. He was afraid.

"Yes," the stranger said softly, and then, to Rjanolf's surprise, he let his cloak fall back into place. He sat down quietly and resumed his restless stirring of the fire. "Yes, there is much to fear. But not from me. I will not harm you tonight."

Rjanolf's eyes roved back and forth wildly, as he tried to speak, tried to form words with his lips, but none would come. The stranger beheld him with his clear, unblinking eyes for a very long time. Then he turned his face away, and his expression was lost in the shadows.

"You fear me now because I have revealed my purpose to you," he said quietly. "But you don't know that it is my presence here that has kept you safe from harm tonight. If you had left this clearing or let this fire die, you would have lost much." Two steely eyes glinted from beneath the brim of the stranger's wide hat. "Cast off your fear for a moment and listen now. The night howls!"

Rjanolf repressed his panic with an effort and did as the stranger asked. He opened his ears and listened. It was true: the wind howled bitterly in the cold branches of the night forest. Rising and falling in pitch, now nearer, now further away, now all around.

Then, with a start, he realized that it was not the wind at all: the night was howling with wolf voices!

Growing up in the shadow of the wild mountains, all Nords knew and feared the savagery of wolves. Rjalnof tried again to get up, but there was nothing he could do. He was like a prisoner in his own body.

The stranger saw the fear in his eyes and nodded.

"Yes, there are black deeds afoot in the woods tonight. Watch!"

Before Rjanolf's wondering eyes, he seized a burning branch from the fire and stood. Holding the brand aloft, he strode forward, and the uncanny darkness yielded a bit before his advance. There in the deepest shadow, not three body lengths from where Iago slumbered, crouched a great black wolf bigger than any Rjanolf had ever seen. It was easily three times a man's height, and its eyes and teeth were red in the firelight.

The Nord was seized with terror, and he thought: surely the beast will devour us! Unable to move or even breathe, he cried out in his mind: "Talos save us!"

Then the strange man laughed; a bright, clear ringing like the sound of a sword being drawn. It was like a clean breeze in a smokehouse. Immediately, Rjanolf's head cleared.

"Go back, Hound of Hircine!" The stranger commanded. "Your master has no claim over me. Go back!"

To Rjanolf's disbelief, the great black beast shied away from the clear voice, and then it was gone without a sound. The man did not drop his torch. He stood watching for a long time, and seemed to be listening.

His vigilance paid off. A huge black shape suddenly exploded from the darkness and bore him down. To his credit, the strange knight did not waver. He drew his sword faster than Rjanolf's eyes could follow and plunged it into the heart of the charging beast as it swept past.

There was a flash and the fire leaped up in sparks. Then there was a terrible rattling howl that shook the night and drew off into a whimper. And then the apparition was gone, leaving behind only the smell of burning flesh and the nightmares that would haunt Rjanolf for the rest of his life.

The man returned to his place, wiping his sword on the hem of his cloak. Drops of poisonous black blood dripped from the blade and sizzled on the snow. At his approach, Rjanolf cowered within himself. If the man wanted to kill him, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But the man merely spoke.

"You are more fortunate than you know." Then he sighed. "No, don't call it fortune. It is ill luck. The woman that you killed—she was greater than you know."

Horror dawned in the Nord's eyes—then grief, grief for what he had done. The stranger held his gaze: he could not look away if he'd wanted to.

"A life for a life, friend. Her life for yours. Live it better than you have. You would not do well always to trust in the mercy of strangers."

It took a moment for Rjanolf to realize what was being said. Sudden waves of relief crashed over him. Tears of wild joy welled up in his eyes as he realized that he was not going to die on the end of the stranger's knife. He didn't know why, but the man was going to spare his life. It took all his strength, but he managed to speak two words:

"I'm sorry."

The stranger said nothing. There were no more words to say. His own grief, for a while, rendered him unable to speak. He turned away so that the paralyzed Nord would not see it.

He tended to the fire for a while, lost in quiet thought. He would not sleep that night. Should the great werewolf return, he would be ready for it. The drugged bandits would doze easily in dreamless sleep until the next evening at least, and by then he would be long gone. His mission demanded haste.

They would be quite safe, of course, though it was more than they deserved. These wolves were not of the physical realm, that they could remain for more than a single night under the red moon. The path he'd made to the bandit camp was broad, impossible to miss in the daylight. Imperial patrols would find it in the morning. The Empire was scrambling for conscripts to fight the Stormcloaks, he knew. Then the trio would learn the meaning of service. He hoped it would make better men out of them.

As for him, the road was long, and the night was wearying. Even though he did not really need to sleep, the traveler found himself wishing for its unworried embrace. Instead he passed the hours in fitful thought, stirring the embers of the fire and watching the sparks sail ever skyward beneath the heavy red moon. Tonight he would watch, and tomorrow, he would mourn for his fallen sister, condemned forever more to the endless red hunts of Hircine in his evil realm, never to feel his touch, lost forever beyond his cure.


End file.
